The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [79]
After a few minutes of winding down narrow thoroughfares, we turned off a derelict avenue into a street whose broken stone thoroughfare was scarcely wide enough to accommodate a wagon. Haggens nodded to indicate that we had reached our destination. I had expected a ramshackle series of storefronts, but was unprepared for the hovels and boarded-up windows that graced both sides of Wharf Lane. Not one of the gas lamps was lit, so the street was illuminated only by the indirect light that bounced its way into the narrow track from streetlamps on the larger roads. Turk could not have chosen a more repulsive spot.
Haggens lit his lantern and turned down the wick so that it gave off only sufficient light to allow us to make our way. There was no need to call any more attention to our presence than was necessary. As we began down the lane, Mike lagged a few steps behind, clearly ready to intercept anyone who attempted to surprise us from the rear. Haggens, I was certain, despite his lack of bulk, would be more than a match for anyone sufficiently foolhardy to try a frontal assault. And, although I saw no revolver, I assumed that both were armed. Still, each made it a point not to walk too close to the buildings on either side, a strategy that I immediately emulated.
Wharf Lane was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. More than that, I was, and there is no better word, proud to be accepted by these men. They lived by their wits and their courage, without artifice, making no apologies for their behavior, and conducted themselves, once one understood their rules, with an odd sort of integrity. I at last understood why the underworld held such allure for those forced constantly to endure the strictures of polite society.
The task of finding the proper match for Turk’s key seemed at first as if it would be easier than I had thought. Many of the doors to the buildings were boarded up entirely, or had otherwise obviously been out of use for substantially longer than a week or two. By the time we had reached the end of the lane, however, there had been only three locks that were possible and none was the home to Turk’s key. I turned to look back, wondering if we had missed something. Perhaps, I thought with despair, the key was for something different entirely.
“Come on,” said Haggens, “we’ll try the alleys.”
I asked what he meant and he explained that there were alleys that backed the buildings on either side that also provided access. The alley was, if possible, even more sickening. The stench was as bad as in the Dead House and, as soon as we turned in, I heard a soft rumble and then scurrying. Through the haze, I detected movement about halfway down and, as my eyes adjusted to the scene, I realized with a start that it was human.
“They’re like rats, Doc,” said Haggens. “Don’t worry none. They want less part of us than we do of them.”
The form had disappeared, somehow blending into the architecture and piles of waste. To reach bottom in Haggens’ world was to be reduced to bestiality. Was this what awaited a woman like Monique, I wondered, when her looks abandoned her entirely?
We made our way up the alley, looking for a door that might spell success. About three quarters of the way to the next street, I saw it. It was grimy and the wood was split, but the lock was in decent repair and the ground in front showed signs of recent traffic. I slipped the key into the lock; turned and clicked. Haggens nodded to Mike to remain downstairs, and we stepped inside.
A staircase just ahead looked swept or as if something had been dragged down, as did the rotting planks that passed for floorboards. I exchanged glances with Haggens and we began to climb to the second floor. He let me lead,